Which Way I Fly
by Rainsaber
Summary: Sometimes there are lessons we don't learn until it's almost too late. D'Artagnan is forced to re-examine his relationship with his father, his friends, and even his place among the Musketeers. D'Artagnan/Athos centric. Non-slash.


**Which Way I Fly**

**Summary:** Sometimes there are lessons we don't learn until it's almost too late. D'Artagnan is forced to re-examine his relationship with his father, his friends, and even his place among the Musketeers. D'Artagnan/Athos centric. Non-slash.

**A/N:** First order of biz, the title is borrowed from Milton's Paradise Lost. Second, as before, I am respectfully taking a little bit of liberty about D'Artagnan's childhood for a larger reason of father/son/pseudo-father mush. Third, there are lots of edits and additions here to be found from my first and second posting on LiveJournal so this time around things will look and read just a bit differently. And by "just a bit" I actually mean a lot, mostly in the sense of there being LOTS more material, more chapters, more scenes, etc.

**Warnings:** Lots of angst, child abuse depending on how you view D'Artagnan's character and age, some blood, cursing. Basically not a story for little kiddies so mind the T rating, please.

**Disclaimer:** The Three Musketeers and its characters rightfully belong to Alexandre Dumas. I'm just a serial borrower.

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**Chapter One - Prologue**

Luck didn't mean what most people thought it meant.

D'Artagnan leaned over a washbasin and stared at his reflection in the looking glass. The colorful bruise on the side of his head, courtesy of a now sorry Cardinal's guard from about a week ago, was beginning to fade. And the scar on his lip from where he'd accidentally bitten it was almost gone too. Not exactly the sight he was looking forward to showing his mother on his trip home this morning, but there was nothing D'Artagnan could do about that. He only hoped his father wouldn't start asking questions.

Once those started, they usually led to something more. And most of D'Artagnan knew that it was inevitable no matter what, but some small part of him still hoped that this trip home would be different. He picked up his small saddlebag of the things he needed, and never really taken out, and headed downstairs in the early hours. He had already said his goodbyes last night, so he was somewhat surprised to see Aramis awake tending to his own horse in the stables.

"Couldn't sleep," was all Aramis could give as an excuse.

"Another thesis," D'Artagnan asked as he went to saddle Buttercup.

"On repentance this time, yes."

D'Artagnan shook his head with a smile. "You should get those things printed one day, Aramis. They won't do you any good sitting in a corner collecting dust."

"This I know," Aramis replied, straightening up from the gate of his horse's stall. "But even if I do they'll no doubt be put away in some dark corner of some monastery's library collecting dust anyway."

"Then why write?"

Aramis smiled. "Why does man breathe?"

D'Artagnan laughed and shook his head as he pulled Buttercup out of her stall. Aramis followed him into the street. "Forgive me, Aramis, but I think it's too early for that kind of thinking."

The sun had yet to rise over the fields outside of the city, though the sky was continuing to brighten by the minute. D'Artagnan pulled himself up onto the saddle while Aramis held the reins. There wasn't any need of it since Buttercup was used to him, but once he was settled he took the reins back with a thank you all the same.

"Perhaps it is too early," Aramis allowed. "But in that case I would think Porthos is rubbing off on you too much."

"I hope not," D'Artagnan joked. "Next you know I'll be walking around in clothes that don't fit me."

Aramis turned away abruptly with something halfway between a snort and something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. D'Artagnan bit his own cheek to keep from laughing himself. The previous night the man in question had gone on a drunken rant about how his clothes were shrinking, and rather than correct him by pointing out how it wasn't the clothes that were getting smaller, Athos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan simply sat back let him go. They eventually took pity on Porthos and put the poor man to bed after he tried to enlarge his unyielding belt.

"Safe travels, D'Artagnan," Aramis said after clearing his throat and straightening up.

D'Artagnan smiled, warmed a little bit even in the chilly morning air. "Thank you, Aramis. I'll see you in a few days."

Although the journey down to Gascony took a day and a half, D'Artagnan thought it felt like double the time. He'd made this journey many times already since he had first come to Paris and home still felt like a world away. He had begun to think of the rooms he shared with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis as a second home and he was almost sad to leave again because he never felt like he had enough time to make it feel as such.

His father had sent a letter to Monsieur de Treville directly some months after he first went to Paris, asking him to give D'Artagnan time to come home for a few days every month to help around the farm. He remembered feeling angry about it at first, but did his best to hide it from Monsieur de Treville when he had been given permission. Although it had been done behind his back and without his father asking him first, it was true that his parents needed help, and they had both been on his mind since taking up accommodations in Paris. It would take him a bit longer to rise to the rank of a musketeer when he had to take time every month to go home for what was continually growing closer to a full week, but hopefully once they took care of what needed to be done at his grandparent's house, things would settle down a little more.

After spending the night at an inn that was familiar with him and his comings and goings, he arrived home around midday. His mother came out to greet him with a warm hug that D'Artagnan returned with just as much love. "Welcome home, my son," his mother said.

"It is good to see you, mother." D'Artagnan smiled at her, and basked in the open love and affection his mother always shared with him. It made him feel a bit guilty to ruin the moment with another question, but being that his visits home were rarely out of pleasure alone, he had to know. "Where is father?"

His mother sighed. "Where he always is. The Degares."

D'Artagnan frowned. "And how long has he been there this time?"

His mother's face turned serious, somewhere halfway between a sad tiredness and chastisement. "Hush, now. None of that. He knew you were coming home so I suspect he won't be long. No doubt he has some more work planned for the both of you. But before any of that, I thought you'd like some of your favorite vegetable dumplings after such a long journey."

He hugged her tight again and whispered in her ear, "I love you, mother," before kissing her on the cheek.

His mother smiled at him, happy twinkles in her eyes. "I love you too. And so does your father, even if he has a hard time showing it lately."

D'Artagnan forced a smile for her sake. "Let's go inside."


End file.
